


Lie Down in the Light

by Red



Series: "Lessons" Verse [1]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bottom Erik, Canon Disabled Character, Catheters, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Medical Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up too early on Saturday morning, Charles isn't really expecting to stumble upon a new kink of Erik's... But what else are weekends for, other than relaxing and enjoying oneself? </p><p>The tags are more-or-less the summary here, so mind them if anything's a trigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie Down in the Light

When Charles wakes up, the room is harsh with daylight. 

It’s only through long practice that he doesn’t broadcast his irritation loud enough to be overheard across the city. 

Were it strictly up to him, this would never be an issue. _He_ has curtains in his apartment and he knows how to use them. Last time he’d been woken at sunrise with such obnoxious consistency, he was a lot younger and in hospital, and at least the nurses brought drugs. 

But, as Charles has been trying to remind himself these days, it's no longer strictly up to him.

He can hear the bathroom sink running, and the tone of Erik’s thoughts are business-like and brusque. It’s the weekend, but that’s never mattered when it comes to Erik. It’s like this with him day in, day out--awake at dawn whether he’s able to work or not. The few times Charles has seen Erik sleep past seven have all been at Charles’s place, and he suspects that can be blamed entirely on his own subconscious--he sleeps so deeply at home, his powers are probably dragging Erik along for the ride. 

That or it’s the curtains, he thinks, glaring up at the industrial windows high on the wall where the morning sun blares in unfiltered. 

From the sound of it, Erik’s done shaving. He’s still in the bathroom, though, and for a moment Charles hesitates before he gets out of bed.

It’s hardly as if he hasn’t been in the bathroom the same time as Erik before. But they're still at this nebulous phase in what seems bound to be a permanently nebulous relationship, and while it's been two years and they're more or less regarded as married by their friends, it's not like they’re ever going to _live_ together. 

Sharing a bathroom for the whole morning routine thing is just a little intimate. Domestic, even. 

Charles isn’t shy about the mechanics of his body--it was only a week they'd been fucking before he made sure Erik “happened” to walk in on him in the bathroom--and if anything, he's less shy about Erik's. It’s not squeamishness on his part that’s the problem, he thinks as he unlocks the wheels of his chair and feels Erik's mind react to the movement. 

The problem, Charles knows, is what Erik terms Your Massive Commitment Issues. The capitals are audible, the " _your_ " indivisible from the title, despite the fact it's Erik who can’t even keep a goddamn change of socks at Charles's place. Trying to gain some ground in the eternal battle to at least get Erik complaining about _Our_ Massive Commitment Issues, Charles heads in. 

Erik’s bathroom--unlike Charles’s--does not comfortably fit two adult men and a wheelchair. But they're here often enough, by this point Charles has the man trained to sit on the counter to make room. He refuses to feel guilty, since Erik looks more comfortable there than he does in Charles’s bathroom, where he’s forever stooping over the low fixtures. 

"Morning," Erik mumbles around his toothbrush. 

While Charles isn’t particularly fond of the hour, an attractive freshly-showered man in nothing more than a towel draped low around his hips makes him feel a bit more charitable. Pausing in front of Erik, he brushes one hand along the back of Erik’s calf. “Good morning,” he replies, kissing the inside of Erik’s leg, bit above the knee. The muscles of Erik’s thigh tense, but he keeps brushing his teeth. Charles smirks up at him. 

“Any big plans?” he asks, passing Erik to open the drawer he’d commandeered when they started sleeping together so often that it became absurd to keep ferrying medical supplies back and forth every single night. 

Who’s the one with commitment issues, Charles thinks, angling in front of the toilet to cath. Not the guy with _a drawer_ in his boyfriend’s apartment, that’s for bloody sure. Erik took ages just to leave a toothbrush at Charles’s.

Still half-asleep, he yawns and lets his bladder drain, absentmindedly waiting for Erik to answer. He doubts Erik has anything much more productive than his usual daily someone’s-a-masochist-and-not-just-in-a-fun-way workout routine lined up for today, he’d have picked up something of his thoughts about it already if Erik did. Erik’s just going to make some toothpaste-muffled variation on the word “no,” and they can get on with a lovely morning of doing nothing at all.

But as he pisses--first thing in the morning, this sometimes takes a while--he realizes Erik is strangely silent. 

As in, he’s even stopped brushing. That sort of silent. 

Perplexed, Charles looks over at him. 

Erik’s still got the toothbrush in his mouth, and he’s watching Charles. His expression and the tone of his thoughts are strangely... _speculative_ , Charles realizes.

He raises an eyebrow. 

Interesting. This isn’t anywhere near the first time Erik’s seen him do this, bit closer to the hundredth. Even when it _was_ the first Erik saw him catheterizing, there was just curiosity and worry in Erik’s mind--both of which pretty much dissipated by the second time. Charles only wishes he weren’t still too asleep to suss out Erik’s motives.

The minute Erik notices Charles watching, he hops off the counter, busying himself with spitting out toothpaste and rinsing his mouth. 

But there’s still a trailing end of that thought. _\--what it’s like?_ he’s thinking, and Charles answers unthinkingly as he finishes up. 

“Wouldn’t really know, I’m afraid,” he says, yawning again. He tosses the catheter and gestures for Erik to shove aside so he can wash his hands. 

Obliging, Erik sits up on the counter again. He’s tapping his fingers on the tile. 

“I understand that,” he mumbles. 

Charles hasn’t spent any time talking about it, but it _is_ an obvious conclusion: he didn’t start catheterizing until he had to, after the accident. What he can sense Erik’s curious about, the way the catheter feels physically--that would take a level of sensation Charles hasn’t had since high school, and as he dries his hands suddenly he _realizes_.

Yes, it is a bit embarrassing that it took this long to catch on, but at least he’s awake _now_. 

Erik’s still not making eye contact. 

“You’d--” Charles pauses, trying to get together the right words, not wanting to fumble this one.

Erik has always been the skittish sort with asking, particularly when it’s for something interesting, and he's bound to be twice as reluctant with this. Already, Charles can sense a build of misguided shame, just from _thinking_ about doing something Charles does out of necessity like this, in a sexual context. 

And there’s no doubt about it. This _is_ sexual. 

Yes, Erik is curious, but in the back of his mind there's also a glimmer of familiarity: a scene from a particularly lurid domination porn he’s watched with guilty regularity, jerking off as he pictures himself in the passive role, tied up as the catheter is roughly forced in. 

It's replaying, vivid as anything, right now. Charles blushes. 

Well. The porn is perhaps unrealistic, but there’s absolutely no reason Erik can’t experience something _like_ it. 

“We should try,” he finishes, all enthusiasm. 

Erik glances over, quick and nervous. 

“I--You don’t have to,” Erik says, and Charles reaches over to grab his wrist, tight and controlling. There’s an audible hitch in Erik’s breath. 

“That’s right. I don’t have to. But I want to.” 

Rubbing at the fluttering pulse of Erik’s wrist, he smirks. “Now, remind me--no big plans, am I right?”

\-------

Still, they can't just hop right back in bed and get to it.

The mechanics take planning. And besides, Charles needs to be sure of the space Erik’s in before they try out anything novel, so they have breakfast, Erik goes for his run, and Charles finishes up the rest of the weekend’s grading. All the while Charles is plotting.

Far as the technical aspects go, he could very well do this sitting propped against the head of the bed, Erik kneeled over him like how they often have sex. He could also easily do it lying down by Erik’s side, or having Erik lean against him as he sits up while he reaches around Erik’s waist, or...

Hell, at this point in his life, he’s used a catheter so many times he could probably do it in the dark, drunk and asleep. Come to think of it, he has, and doing this to Erik will only be easier from _any_ position. He’ll have a better angle. He isn’t going to be half-awake, clumsy with sleep like he was this morning. God, Erik’s even circumcised, this isn't exactly rocket science. 

The positioning isn’t so much delicate for the act _itself_ , but for Erik’s response. Charles rejects outright having Erik facing away from him. Even if he’ll be listening in to Erik’s thoughts, he wants to be able to see Erik’s face, to watch his reactions as well as sense them. And as for the rest--having Erik kneel over him, or being at Erik’s side--while Charles wouldn’t care either way if Erik’s piss got on him, Erik’s proclivities don’t lean that way. 

And it’s harder to tie Erik up with those positions. In the end, the best solution seems to be for him to stay in his chair, with Erik spread out on the bed before him. It’s not an unattractive position in general--not great on his back for giving a blowjob, but he’s fucked Erik open with his hand several times, just like that. 

By mid-afternoon, Charles is sure enough in Erik’s mood. If he’s still apprehensive, it isn't for his own sake--he’s still nervous about how _Charles_ will feel about doing this to him--and most of the morning after his boring-masochism session he spends staring into space thinking about _fun_ masochism. 

It’s not even gone past four in the afternoon before Charles has Erik naked on a camping tarp, feet on the floor and knees splayed. 

“Comfortable?” he asks, pulling himself forward in the chair. He's still fully dressed.

It’s not _entirely_ a rhetorical question. He doesn’t ever have the heart to go at Erik like some porno dom. He doubts that’s what Erik truly desires, anyway. He’s had Erik shower again, his skin’s clean-smelling in the afternoon warmth, the still-damp towel draped at his side. And he’s only got Erik’s hands tied, forearms together, arms stretched above his head.

“I would be if you didn’t always insist on this-- _stuff_ ,” Erik claims, glaring upward. 

As if he doesn’t love it. Finding metal-free restraints is a wonderful challenge, given Erik’s chagrined response to his every attempt. This _stuff_ \--a great deal of what is essentially black saran wrap--Erik always finds particularly offensive, mainly because while it alleges to be reusable, Charles can’t rewrap it for the life of him. 

“Shush. You’re on your honor not to lose any limbs,” he says. It’s not easy for him to get up and check for circulation, but they’ve used the tape long enough that it’s not much of a concern. Erik grumbles a bit, but he goes quiet pretty quick when Charles tugs firmly at his thighs, pulling him forward so his ass is nearly off the bed. Not able to get any purchase with his hands, he kicks one leg out and hooks it against Charles’s chair, fighting to catch his balance. 

“Shit, Charles.” He sounds more turned-on than genuinely surprised, and he writhes, the lines of his muscles lean and sinuous as he relaxes into the new position. “Give a little warning.” 

Charles grins. “Rather defeats the purpose,” he says. Stroking up the insides of Erik’s thighs, he circles his hands around the base of Erik’s prick. 

Already, he's half-hard. Charles squeezes, once, considering. 

He’s had to cath himself when he’d had erections, so he knows it’s not impossible or--far as he knows--harmful. It’s just difficult to know if it's _unpleasant_. Erik tenses, breathing slowly, trying not to react to Charles’s touch. 

Might as well split the difference, Charles thinks, and he lets go of Erik’s prick with one hand to reach over and pull the kit near. 

This is one of those in-case-of-apocalypse catheters, and he's not even sure how it ever migrated to Erik's place. Charles doesn’t need a full hospital-issue kit to catheterize--he just wound up with one--and the catheter that comes in this is inflexible vinyl in an unnecessarily large gauge. He's a bit squeamish shoving it down something he can’t feel, but if it’s _sensation_ Erik’s aiming for--well, probably better this than the soft rubber ones Charles uses normally. 

One-handed, he rips the sealed top off of the kit. 

And that, of course, is when Erik decides he’s going to sit up. 

“Wait,” he blurts. When he pulls himself up like that, hands-free, it does the most distracting things with his abdominal muscles and Charles just sits back and admires him for a moment. 

“Bit late now, I’ve already opened the sterile field,” Charles jokes, eventually. Erik’s kept his hands obediently in place, even if he’s broke position. Charles has their thoughts connected, and while Erik’s not quite panicking, he’s gone very nervous. 

“Yes, but. I don’t know--we shouldn’t,” Erik stammers. He looks at the kit and then back at Charles. There’s still a speculative, aroused interest in his mind. 

“We shouldn’t” isn’t quite “I’ve changed my mind,” and Charles thinks he knows where this is going-- _again_ \--but he needs to ask to be absolutely sure.  
The most obvious thought isn’t always the one Erik's mind has stumbled on. 

He pats gently at Erik’s hip. “Okay. Time out, then.” 

“Okay. You want me to--” he shrugs his shoulders, pulling at the tape. It's not exactly hard bondage, more symbolic than anything else, and Charles gives him a look that makes him still. 

“Remind me when that started to mean you don’t have to talk."

Erik looks for a moment like he wants to argue, and Charles waits him out.

“Unfortunately, never,” he mumbles, low enough that Charles can scarcely make out the words. 

“Well, then. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Erik says reflexively, only to shake his head, correcting himself. “I just--maybe I’m concerned. About how it’ll--turn out.” 

“How do you mean?”

Erik's got a frustrated expression, and a tone to his thoughts that usually means _I think I shouldn’t say, so I’m going to find a way to get out of this if it kills me_. Pushing him directly won’t do much more than completely ruin the mood, and even if this was Erik’s idea, Charles is quite happy to be on with it. 

“You worried it’ll hurt?” 

“No,” Erik says, quick enough to mean _and if it did I might like it_ , and while he’s still off-balance from that, Charles asks the real question. 

“You’re not worried about _me_ , are you?” 

Because--frustrating though it may be--it makes sense. Charles fights to dismiss his own emotional response. Erik’s hesitation is probably far less to do with how he sees Charles than how Erik understands and reacts to his own baggage. 

_It’s not that Erik thinks you weak, that you can’t handle this_ , Charles tells himself.

It’s that Erik compartmentalizes. Some people can--or need to--mix old traumas with their kinks, or just don’t seem to care, but Erik’s not like that. Erik’s cautious, vigilant about the things that trip him up, forever terrified of getting sent into panic. He likes being tied up, he likes impact play, he’s pretty keen on being put on a leash when the mood’s right, but… 

But Charles knows, he can’t ever raise his voice. He can’t give _too_ many orders, not all at once, and certainly not with any sort of severity. Just _standing_ too long gets Erik nervous. 

The military and what it did to Erik, all his anxieties--they impact every factor of Erik’s life, sex included. And if he avoids reminders of that time, well--

This is the closest they’ve really broached anything like medical play. It's reasonable that Erik supposes Charles would want to avoid it. 

He can feel Erik’s thoughts take a turn toward _fucked up again, treating him like he’s weak--_ and Charles smiles gently, thanking himself for creating such an terrific fix for these situations. 

“You can’t be worried about me. You can’t worry at all about anything, not right now. Impossible, remember?” 

And just that easy, Erik's thoughts come back around from that harsh turn, going toward something a bit more like _resignation_. He rolls his eyes. 

“Charles. That’s not--”

“ _Completely_ impossible. You’ve got the collar on, I’ve suppressed your worry sector.” 

“That’s ridiculous, your powers don’t even vaguely work like that. And that is _not_ a part of the brain,” Erik tries to tell him. Just like the first fifty times Erik’s tried to talk his way out of the "psychic collar" idea, Charles doesn’t listen to a word. 

It was a simple enough concept: make a concrete signal for Erik that he can let go and stop overthinking things, at least for a short while and in a contained situation. And to Charles’s pleasure, it works brilliantly, even if Erik’s no fun whenever he tries explaining _why_. 

“Oh, but I’m much more powerful than I let on, love.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Erik grumbles. 

“So lie back down. Relax. Collar’s working great.”

“I can’t believe I let you buy this ugly thing,” he complains, but at least he goes back to sprawling on the tarp while he does so. 

Half of Erik’s distaste with the collar is simply how it _looks_ , though Charles finds it rather charming. When he found Erik had been shyly looking into collars--independent of the whole psychic-command-to-relax gimmick, of course--all of them had been from legitimate leather makers, proper bondage companies. But all those collars, fetching though they may have been, had metal on them someplace. That would have ruined the whole I’m-in-charge, psychic-collar purpose, so what Erik would up with was a bright orange strap of nylon with a black plastic clasp. 

Possibly, it was originally intended for a labrador retriever. Just possibly. 

“I’d tell you not to worry about it,” Charles starts, and Erik sighs.

“But I can’t,” he begrudgingly finishes. Charles pets the inside of his thigh in reward, trailing his hand upward. 

“No, you can’t,” he says. “Now, really--you’re okay?” 

Erik nods. “Yes. I’m sorry.” 

Charles pinches him. “Hey, none of that, pet.” He soothes over the mark with his fingertips, watching how Erik’s muscles tense and relax. “None of that. Now--where were we?” 

Already, Erik’s prick is starting to show interest again. He’d gone completely soft with nerves and lack of stimulation, but with Charles focusing on him again… Sometimes, he can respond so beautifully. Charles brushes his fingertips up and up, skimming through the hair, teasing at the delicate join of his thigh. Erik sighs again, breathy this time, with gratification.

“Around there, I think,” he whispers. Charles runs his fingers down and over, barely touching the weight of Erik’s testicles. The skin is thin and wonderfully fragile. He lingers, feeling them draw up. _So beautiful_ , he thinks, _so responsive_ , and he shares the thought with Erik. 

It’s surprisingly easy, getting Erik back to where Charles had him. He circles the base of Erik’s cock again, squeezing and releasing in a slow rhythm until Erik’s cock lists fat and heavy to the left, half-hard and gorgeous. 

Charles stops the tease, pumps his hand up once to grip Erik firmly, just under the head. 

“Perfect,” he breathes. “Now stay just like this. There’s a love.” He tilts his grip, getting Erik’s prick how he wants it, pointing down a little so Charles has a good view. 

A soft, needy little whine comes from above him. Charles glances up, but Erik’s arched back. The lines of his neck and jaw are tense, like he’s already trying not to come.

“Okay?” 

Erik moans again, knees shifting apart. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he answers. “Yes, I--” he breathes in and out deeply, rapid, the way he does when he’s trying to calm himself. “just want you so much,” he admits in a rush.

Charles smiles. With his free hand--thankful as ever for the gift of ambidexterity--he reaches into the kit. Of course, there’s a bunch of iodine swabs he discards outright. He’s just got Erik clean, Erik’s healthy enough, and home-germs aren’t hospital-germs. There’s some sterile gloves and a specimen cup and a bunch of other crap he wouldn’t use for himself, either, but at least one of the extraneous items has some use. 

Ripping the packet of surgical lube, he squeezes a bit out on the tray, letting the catheter slide through it. He doesn’t do this for himself, either, not anymore. He did at first, but once he was sure enough of his technique and the fact he wasn’t going to hurt anything it was just an extra step. But if it’s Erik’s dick, he supposes he should go a little easy. At least the first time, anyway.

Once that’s done, well--it’s a pretty straightforward thing. Charles picks up the catheter in a practiced motion, holding it in a steady loop from the end. It’s rigid enough that it’s easily done, and he pauses with it mid-air. 

“My lovely pet,” Charles purrs, moving his thumb on Erik’s cock. He presses it under the head and a little to one side, drawing down ever so gently, pulling the tiny slit slightly open. “Do you want to watch?” 

Erik shudders, his cock firming a bit more. Charles gives him a warning squeeze. 

“Yes,” he says, still looking at the headboard. “Fuck, of course. I can’t, I’d come right away, I--fuck, just do it.” 

“All right. Okay, here we are,” he warns, and presses the lube-drenched tip to Erik’s hole. 

It’s strange from this angle, but not terribly awkward or difficult. The catheter sinks in, Erik’s cock opening for it so much easier than Charles expected, and it slips further than Charles meant for at first. The rigid vinyl slides in a few centimeters and Erik’s gasping before Charles stills his hand. 

“Oh--darling, I’m sorry. You’re okay?” 

Still tensed up, Erik takes a breath before he relaxes. 

“Yeah. Fine. Don’t worry. It wasn’t bad,” he says, voice strained. Before Charles can get him to elaborate, though, he looks down and his eyebrows raise. He looks a little impressed. 

Charles lets the catheter slide in further, just for show, and Erik’s hissing out a breath. 

“Not bad, huh?” Charles asks, amused. 

“Mm,” Erik murmurs, squirming a bit. The catheter slips a little further in, and Erik frowns like now he can’t figure out _how_ to feel about it. 

Pausing, Charles skims at Erik's thoughts. “How is it? If it’s ‘not bad,’ like you say,” he asks. He can tell he’s not _hurting_ anything, but the sensations he does pick up--and Erik’s experience of them--are muddled and confusing. 

Erik shifts under him, angling his head to see better. His pulse is fluttering, visible on the strained lines of his neck as he watches. Emboldened, Charles lets the catheter slide in another few centimeters. 

“Ah! Uhm,” Erik clears his throat, like he’s embarrassed at the noises he’s making. “Strange.” 

“Well, I can see that,” he says, twisting the catheter a little between his fingers, getting it to rotate without advancing it any. Erik groans. “Good-strange?” 

“Yeah,” Erik says. His arms are tensed, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose faintly flushed. He really likes this, Charles thinks. They’re going to have to do this more, and in Erik’s thoughts he can see the urge for _even more_ , his sweet twist of desire for humiliation.

“You want it?” he whispers, inching the cath deeper, listening to Erik’s breathing. “Want to feel your piss get forced out?” 

Erik’s hips move, an abbreviated little thrust like he wants it so bad he’d fight to shove the catheter down. Charles squeezes him hard again, sharp enough to be scolding. 

“I know you do,” he continues, calmer than he feels. He never quite gets the hang of dirty talk, but Erik doesn’t ever seem to complain. “You want it forced out, hot all over you, yeah?” 

Shuddering, Erik says nothing, and Charles pushes the catheter in with a gradual slow slide. He can tell when he passes Erik’s prostate. Even without telepathy, it’s impossible to miss, he makes a deep nearly-forced moan and he’s fighting to be still. 

“I guess we’ll see if this is long enough, huh,” Charles mutters, mostly to himself. These are supposed to be rather one-length-fits-all, but with Erik, who knows. It shouldn’t hurt anything to keep going, though. Not unless he has to force it anywhere, and he doesn’t, it slides inward nice and easy as they both watch, and thank god there’s still about two inches of catheter left outside of Erik’s body when Charles feels it. 

Through long practice, Charles can almost always tell when he’s in far enough before the piss even starts draining. It’s a fun trick, especially if he’s stuck in a particularly awkward bathroom stall. Nothing very special to it, there’s just a sort vibration or a change in the warmth of the catheter. Either way, it works with Erik, too. Certain he’s in the bladder, he suddenly eases his grip on Erik’s cock, letting it cant upwards before he shoves the cath ever-so-slightly deeper. 

“There we go,” he says, right as it starts. He keeps his hold on the end the catheter, feeling the warmth of urine streaming out; it runs hot and quick down onto Erik’s stomach. Even if he was expecting it, Erik’s mind is all shock, the delighted hooks of submission and humiliation twisting in. And even as his piss runs down over his abdomen, he’s getting harder, his cock firming around the catheter. 

Charles hadn’t said anything one way or the other on Erik having a piss before they started, and there isn’t much in his bladder, now. Soon enough, it’s just a few dribbles running down the end of the cath and over Charles’s fingers. He adjusts his right hand to cup the head of Erik’s prick and support the catheter at once. 

Erik’s got his eyes closed again, and he’s panting shallowly through his nose. Piss is one of his gray-area kinks. He only ever likes it on him, and even then only at first, before his obsessive cleanliness makes him stress over it. 

“Doing so well, pet,” Charles soothes. “Breathe deep for me. Good. I’m going to have you come for me, now. Need the towel first?” 

He’s sure Erik will say yes, sure enough that he’s already reaching for the towel with his spare hand, but then Erik speaks. 

“No.” Erik’s voice is deep, gravelly with want. “Leave it. I’m okay for now, just--please. Please.” 

“Of course. Shh,” Charles says. Bypassing the towel, he reaches instead to get the torn packet of lube. 

There’s still about half of it left, and he knows it’s cold, but it’s so lovely to watch Erik flinch when he empties it down his prick. It’s lovely to feel it warm under his hand and with the heat of Erik’s pulse, to hear the wet slap of flesh as he jerks Erik off. There’s not much he’s doing in the way of stimulating the glans--not much he can do, since he’s just trying to keep the catheter steady and supporting Erik’s cock with that hand--but he doesn’t think Erik needs much. His thighs are shaking with the effort to be still, his neck deliciously taut under his collar. 

“Tell me,” Charles breathes, sinking his powers deeper into Erik’s mind. He doesn’t want to leave this part to chance. “When you’re about to come, you have to say.” 

Erik groans in a way that _might_ be agreement. It’s not terribly important, Charles has their connection laced tight enough now that he could _stop_ his orgasm if he wanted. But if there’s one thing Erik likes to show off with, it’s his control. 

“It’s important,” Charles says, pumping the slick length of his shaft quicker. “You’ll have to tell me, my dear, my sweetest pet, tell me when you’re going to come for me--” he talks on and on, low and teasing, because Erik’s thoughts only become more inflamed and desperate with every word, and it’s soon that Erik’s kicking to plant his feet down hard and arching up. 

“Charles! I’m-- _fuck, fuck!_ ” 

He hadn’t needed to say. The second Charles felt the beginning spark of orgasm setting off in Erik’s body and mind, he was able to do it. Quickly, in one smooth motion, he pulls the catheter out, right as Erik starts to come. The sudden tug, the drag of stimulation against his prostate--the sensation is so foreign and _good_ to Erik, it would have set him off if he hadn’t already been coming, and with it happening right up against when he does… Charles has to moan, feeling it in Erik’s mind. It’s like an extended orgasm, the pleasure of the tube tugging out merging into that of ejacualtion, and Erik shoots hard, yelling and straining his arms against the tape restraining him, his hips thrusting up mindless and hard into the tight channel of Charles’s hand. The come lands in long, thick stripes, staining his chest and his stomach, where he’s still wet with piss. 

Keeping the catheter in his right hand for now, he works Erik through it left-handed, milking him out relentlessly. It lasts far longer than normal. Erik can’t stop coming, like how it is when Charles spins out their pleasure with his powers, and when Erik's finally done he collapses with a pained sob. 

Charles lets up on him immediately, tosses the catheter back in the discarded kit and wipes his hands off on the tarp before getting them back on Erik. Petting him in firm, grounding strokes everywhere he can reach, Charles bites his lip. 

Too much, he thinks. It was intense, too much so--Erik’s breath is stilted and desperate, his arms are twisted awkwardly in their binds, he’s shaking and damp with sweat and piss and come and--

And, Charles realizes with a start, he’s crying. 

Not hard, just a few tears tracking through the sweat as he pants and sobs for air. But it’s always upsetting, even when it’s like this, even when Charles can read beneath the static of Erik’s mind and see it’s not out of pain or distress--it’s always hard to see a lover cry. Particularly Erik, Charles thinks as he’s petting him slowly, in long soothing strokes. 

It’s tempting to ask him how he’s doing, to comfort him telepathically, to hush him. But they’ve done this enough by now. Charles has seen Erik like this just enough to know most of this is catharsis, and any attention Charles draws to it will only trip Erik up. It’s like Erik can’t find out he’s crying, else his mind will go cruel. His brain will just turn against him. 

So Charles does the only thing that ever seems to help, and he keeps rubbing over the overheated skin of Erik’s body. 

“Good,” he murmurs after a bit, when he thinks Erik’s calmed enough to hear. “You did so well. You’re so very good.” Erik’s breath slows, his muscles start to relax under Charles’s touch. With time, he shifts around, angling to try and wipe his face on his stretched arms before he looks at Charles. 

“That was--” he clears his throat, shaking his head at the roughness of his own voice. “I don’t even have the words.” 

“I see that,” Charles says, relieved. Grabbing the towel, he wipes Erik down gently. “It was okay?” 

Erik smirks down at him. “What does it look like?” 

“Looks like you lost a few brain cells with that one,” Charles admits. Now that Erik’s clean, he pulls at his hips, urging him to sit up. “C’mere, handsome.” 

Though Erik grumbles, he does sit up. Charles reaches for his arms, unraveling the tape and crumpling it so he can pretend he’ll use it again someday. Erik leans into him. He’s a welcome, sweaty weight, but he resists and pulls away when Charles tries to tug him on his lap. 

“May I take a shower first?” he asks, rubbing at his wrists and forearms, where the bondage tape has left marks.

Charles strokes thoughtfully over the trim curve of Erik’s waist. Privately, he’d rather Erik not. He just took a shower. There wasn’t much of a mess, and everything's on the towel now, anyway. Erik’s thoughts feel all fragile and brittle, and Charles needs to get him under the blankets and cuddling until they’ve enough energy to order delivery. 

But Erik’s got his own needs, his own way of coping. Can't magic-collar him out of everything. 

“Well, of course,” he says. _You needn’t ask_ , he almost adds, before thinking the better of it. He unlocks the chair to wheel back a little, giving Erik space. Erik gives him a grateful smile and stands, turning back to the bed to ball up the towel and tarp. Charles watches him, the graceful strength of his motions, and when he’s straightened back up Charles can’t help interrupting. 

“Wait. Maybe--can you come back a second?” he asks. Erik looks concerned, but he comes over willingly. Charles grins when he just stands there. “ _And_ lean down.” 

Erik does, tarp all rolled up in his arms and everything, and Charles leans up to kiss him, deep and passionate.

“There we go,” he says, once they break apart. “Be back soon?” 

In answer, Erik leans in to give him another kiss. 

“Ten minutes. Your shirt had better be off,” he demands, and Charles flushes with anticipation. Erik mouths over to suck a mark on his neck, hard and promising. 

“But if you’re that worried about it,” he continues as he walks out, “I’ll make you a magical collar, too.”


End file.
